“Better than the Argentine, Henry?”
“By Jove, yes, I should think so: better than the Argentine.”
She gave a chuckle of happiness. She dealt her secret out to him in small doses, like the old Epicurean she was.
“Isn’t it nice to think, Henry, that those fields and woods belong to you?”
“But they don’t,” he said, “they belong to you.”
“Well—doesn’t that amount to the same thing?”
“Oh, no,” he said, “not at all the same thing,” and the difference in his mind was that whereas she loved and wanted the fields and woods, their possession would have bored him.
“Dear Henry, that is just an evasion. You know that it amounts to the same thing really. Let us, for the sake of argument, assume that they belong to us both.”
“All right,” he said, humouring her.
“Do you remember,” she went on, “we used to say, how nice it would be if our property went down as far as the river?”